


Struggle Within

by Dulcinea



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: M/M, Nightmares, Restraints, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-09
Updated: 2012-04-09
Packaged: 2017-11-03 07:58:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/379125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dulcinea/pseuds/Dulcinea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the attack on RAW, Punk tries to get some rest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Struggle Within

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I don't think it's that bad, I've definitely written worse, but I'm still feeling pretty awkward and shy sharing this. My offers-no-bullshit beta told me it's not awful and I should share if I want. I don't think I'm cut out for writing non-con in the future, but we will see. It was really hard to write this, so please be honest in telling me if it sucks or whatnot.

“Get some rest,” the doctor told him. “You need it.” And his head agreed. So did his body. “Sleep, for fuck’s sake,” Colt said over the phone a few hours later, and he listened, for once, without a complaint or a fuck you, slipping under the covers and closing his eyes.

He woke up later sore and cold. “Uhn…” His head spun, his mouth stretched and dry. Stuffed, almost, like cotton or paper filled up his throat. “Hngh. Mm.” He bit down—and his tongue tasted cloth.

His eyes flew open to total darkness.

_Fuck._

Something wet hit his cheek. He flinched, shaking his head. _Clink, schlink, clink_ went something above, something below— _what’s happening_ —and he groaned, chewing whatever it was in his mouth to hold back the urge to vomit.

Both his arms and legs felt heavy and sore. His breathing echoed too loud. He heard his heartbeat, heard _clink, schlink, clink_ , a _squeak._

His hands flexed. Numbness tickled down his outstretched— _what, what the_ —arms. His legs flexed too, the same sensation tickling up his spread— _oh my God_ —legs.

A sharp twist of his torso, and he felt his bare ass scrape against the cold, wet wall behind him.

 _Shit._ His breathing quickened with his heartbeat. _SHIT._

“Enjoying yourself?”

His head jerked up. _No._

A choked yelp slipped out when something squeezed his neck. It tightened, cut his lungs off, made his brain scream _no no stop no_ , and there was no release. He forced himself to breathe hard through his nose, saliva drooling down the sides of his mouth, down to his chin, until he could control himself again.

Fingers dug into his hair. “Yeah.” They pulled. “Sounds like you are.”

 _Nightmare._ His heart punched his chest, loud thumps that bled through his ears. _It’s a nightmare._ He tilted his head back, wincing when he bumped into the wall.

The hand in his hair let go, while the other slid over his collarbones, from one side to the other. He squeezed his eyes shut— _don’t, don’t, don’t_ —as it slipped down his chest, over the left pec— _no, no, no_ —nails scratching the nipple— _oh, fuck, NO_ —and then the other, pinching the right and pulling hard.

He bucked up into the hand. _Fuck you._ He hissed, growled, twisting his torso, his head, and Punk felt his body swing in whatever was holding him up and in place.

 _Not real._ Punk forced his breathing to steady out. _It’s not real, dammit._

“Heh.” Jericho’s hand petted his belly. “Didn’t think you’d give in so easy, Punk.” It slid down. “Guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Considering where you come from.” And it wrapped around his cock. “Filth.”

He shouted around the gag, “Fuck you!”

_SLAP._

“Agh!” His cheek stung.

_SLAP._

“Fuck!” The other too.

The hand on his dick stroked him in slow pumps. “Say it again.” The thing around his neck tightened again— _leather, fucking leather_ —and Punk choked while Jericho hissed, “Do it, Punk.”

He fought for air and wheezed out, “ _F-Fuck you!”_

“Louder!”

“ _FUCK YOU!_ ”

The stroking stopped. 

_SLAP, SLAP._

“Ah!” Punk forced his head away, his cheeks stinging—and choked louder, the leather tightening more around his throat

“What’s the matter, Punk?”

_SLAP SLAP._

“Can’t take it?”

_SMACK._

“Tell me to stop.”

_SMACK, SLAP, SLAP._

“FUCK!” He chewed on the cloth, beating heart and heavy breathing and _clink clink clink_ —

“Come on, boy!” The leather jerked his neck out, stretching his arms and shoulders. “Beg.”

 _No._ His face stung and burned. Tears trickled out and down his cheeks. _NO._

_SLAP._

“Do it!”

Punk choked out, “ _NO!_ ”

“Tch.” _SLAP._ “Stubborn bitch.”

The choking stopped. Punk’s body slammed back against the wall, a muffled moan of relief slipping out. His head lolled forward, chin hitting his chest, and he fought the sudden ache welling up inside his chest.

 _Don’t you dare. Don’t you give in._ He chewed around the gag, swallowing down his saliva, as more tears went down his face. _Don’t give him what he wants._

Footsteps clicked away to somewhere else in the room. What room he was in now, it didn’t matter. It wasn’t his, that was all he knew.

In the silence, he calmed himself down in deep breaths through his nose. _Don’t, don’t, don’t_ , he repeated like a mantra. _Don’t, don’t, don’t you fucking dare._

His body stiffened when he heard the footsteps draw near again.

They stopped close enough.

He suppressed his flinch as palms flattened over his chest.

“Oh, Punk.” They slid up to his neck. “Still resisting.” They reached behind, unhooking the leather collar and pulling it away. “Pity.”

Once released, Punk thrashed his head around, jerking his arms and legs. _Clink clink clink_ , like chains, his body hitting the wall, he forced himself to move as fast as possible—

A hand squeezed his jaw. “Listen to me.” The other grabbed a fistful of his hair, holding his head in place. “Settle down.”

 _Fuck you._ Punk grunted, jerking his head in Jericho’s hold. _I won’t give in. I won’t let you win._

“ _Punk._ ”

 _No!_ He jerked his head again—

 _SLAP._ To his left cheek. _SLAP._ To his right cheek.

“Stop it,” Jericho hissed. “Listen to me.” Noses brushed in the darkness. “Quiet…”

 _No._ Lips brushed the corner of his stretched lips. _No. Don’t._ His eyelids fluttered as they tickled across his red cheek. _No…_

“Shh.” Lips touched his earlobe. “Shh. Shh.” His voice lowered, whispering, “Shh. Listen to me. Shh.” And Punk’s eyes slid shut, the fatigue from earlier, and everything else tonight, washing over his tired body.

“I didn’t want this to happen.” Fingers slid to the back of his head. “Think, Punk.” They skipped over the injury. “Did I _enjoy_ doing this to you?” His skin goosepimpled as they slowly tickled down the back of his neck. “Not really.” Lips tickled his red cheek. “I only did this to help you.” They kissed the skin—Punk shivered—and Chris whispered, “For your own good.”

The lips pulled away. Punk shook his head no. _You’re wrong. You’re a bastard._ Hands came back, this time over his hips. _You hate me._

“That’s all, Punk.” The hands palmed down his flanks. “I just want to help.” They slid to his thighs, slipping between them and up. Lips brushed his collarbones—“So you can see”—and fingers brushed his balls, forcing a gasp out of Punk. “What I can see.”

 _Shit._ His hips tilted up into Jericho’s hand as it wrapped around his dick again. _No. Fuck._ He held back his groan, those lips kissing at his neck, licking down to his shoulder. _Stop. Oh fuck, stop._

“And you know—” A kiss to his shoulder. “What I see? Huh, Punk?”

Noses brushed again. The hand on his cock stroked him slow.

Jericho’s whisper sounded so loud. “A lonely, little boy, starving for the attention no one ever gave him.”

His mind split in half. _Fuck you,_ one half said. _You’re wrong, dead wrong._ But the other shouted, _He’s right. He’s right, oh fuck, he’s right._ He shook his head, _you’re wrong,_ his chest hurt, _oh fuck,_ his eyes stung, _you’re right,_ his hips pumped into Jericho’s hand, _oh no, no, no no fuck no please_ —

“Stop.”

“Mm?” The stroking slowed down. “What’d you say?”

Punk shut his eyes tight. His chest hurt, his head bowing down. “Stop.”

He felt the gag cloth in his mouth finally pulled out. “Say it again.”

 _Fuck._ His hands twisted into fists, his teeth grinding together, lips flattened to a thin line.

A hand grabbed his chin, forcing his head up. “Say it.”

He took in quick breaths through his nose, biting on his lips, and then forced out: “Stop. Stop it.”

“Hm.” The hand on his dick squeezed. “Struck a nerve, did I?”

“Fuck you.”

“Heh.” A squeeze to his chin. “Knew it.”

“Let me go.”

“In a bit.” The hand released his chin to slide down his sternum. “I think you deserve a parting gift at least.”

“Fuck— _oh_.”

The stroking picked up as teeth dug into the side of his neck. A hand weaved into his hair again, jerking his head over to expose more skin, and more moans and hisses bled out between his lips as each bite and suck sent pleasure up and down his spine to his limbs.

“Like that?” Jericho whispered against his throat. “You want more?”

 _Yes._ Punk panted for breath hard, shaking his head no. _Fuck. Shit._

Jericho chuckled. “Liar.”

His next words turned into moans, sighs, yelps and whines, when wet heat slid over his cock, and Jericho sucked him off, hands squeezing and massaging Punk’s ass cheeks with every bob of his head.

 _Oh fuck._ His head bumped against the wall. _Fuuuuck._

The cuffs, chains, whatever it was holding him up and open, it all rattled and clinked and echoed, like the loud sucks and slurps, like his breathing and his noises, the moans and the groans mixing with the whines and the “fuck” and “ _oh_ ” and “ _shit”_ he heard himself say. And he couldn’t stop. His hips moved. His body moved. His head rolled down to the side, to his chest, back, forward, and his arms and legs flexed and tensed, needing, needing more, needing— _please, fuck, please_ —and he finally came when two wet fingers slipped into his ass and finger-fucked him hard, all the way through his orgasm.

His body slumped forward in his bonds, like a hanging piece of meat. He shivered when Jericho finally let his cock go, fingers slipping out of his ass. Kisses trailed up his tummy to his chest, and he let Jericho kiss him, tasting himself on his tongue, and didn’t stop himself from responding back.

When the kiss ended, hands rubbed over his body, stroking him from nape of neck to his hips. “Now sleep, Punk,” Jericho whispered, giving him another kiss. “I’ll help you.”

 _No…_ He shook his head with the last of his strength. _Don’t trust. Don’t…_

“Shh.” The whisper tickled his ear. “Shh. Shh.” Hands petted his sides. Lips brushed his. “Shh.” Another kiss. “Shh. Shh…”

***

He woke up to light coming in from the window, and a telltale wet spot in his underwear and sheets.

_Fuck._

Punk took his time leaving the bed to the bathroom, discarding his dirty briefs to the floor. His head still pounded from the onslaught yesterday, and his mouth felt funny, like it was stretched and stuffed with cotton all night.

Stepping into the shower proved a daunting task. His body felt weak, sore all over. Worse than what he remembered…

 _No._ He turned on the shower. _It wasn’t real._

The water felt good over his tired body. He rubbed his face under the shower spray in the early morning, pushing the nightmare far away in his mind. _It didn’t happen. It was a nightmare._ His cheeks felt raw and sore, more so than the back of his head. _Not real._

He ran his hands over his wet hair, staring at the linoleum tiling.

Punk pulled at the ends of his hair.

_Dammit Jericho._

He turned off the spray and headed out of the shower to dress.


End file.
